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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958569">The Trouble with a Baby</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/pseuds/EnglandsGray'>EnglandsGray</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Who You Really Are [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>During/post series 4, Established Relationship, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Sherlolly - Freeform, Short &amp; Sweet, broodiness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:43:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,033</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958569</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/pseuds/EnglandsGray</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Chemistry is exceedingly simple to Sherlock Holmes, on paper...</p><p>Scenes which could take place during The Six Thatchers and after The Final Problem.  </p><p>Can be a stand-alone short, also complies with Who You Really Are, because that's how I like things :)</p><p>Part Two: A Request, Made Properly. <br/>What happened after they left John's flat, that evening...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Molly Hooper &amp; Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson &amp; Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes &amp; Mary Morstan &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Who You Really Are [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Their God-daughter.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The second and third chapters of this fiction came to me during writing Who You Really Are.  The first is inspired by a three-second GIF of Amanda and Loo or Mary and Molly (it's not in the episode, certainly) which breaks and warms my heart every time I see it.  There's an argument that says it's me that's broody, not Sherlock and Molly!  </p><p>I love these characters dearly, but they are not mine.  All credit, and all love, to the creators and the BBC.</p><p>It transpires that I love a comment and I love a review :)</p><p>Find me on tumblr, if you like - englandsgray</p><p>Hope you enjoy and hope you all stay safe and well xx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>London</p><p>Sometime in 2015</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock held his phone in exactly the same position it had been in since he arrived at John and Mary’s flat. He tapped his thumbs across the keyboard in the same fashion as he had near constantly since discovering the theft of the Thatcher. His eyes remained focussed upon the same three square inches of LCD screen anyone else in the room could cheerfully bet their life savings on their being focussed upon at any given time. His deception was complete; he was a genius. They need not know – nor would they likely ever guess – he was merely texting a spare handset in the cutlery drawer at Baker Street. He smiled to himself, raised his eyes for a split second to observe the people in the room, would it be John or perhaps Molly casting a disparaging look his way…?</p><p>Sherlock’s shoulders dropped and his thumbs froze above the keypad. Not a single pair of eyes, nor one on it’s own for that matter, was even fleetingly laid upon him. His own found the source of the problem immediately.</p><p>Mary was cradling it. John was stood by the settee looking at it. Mrs Husdon was failing to take an in-focus photograph of it.</p><p>Molly too had her eyes upon the baby. She was sat by Mary’s side, closely, looking down into the face of her God-daughter. Their God-daughter. He scoffed internally;</p><p>
  <b>Silly term. God has nothing to do with it.</b>
</p><p><em> <b>But of course we will, John. </b> </em> <em> <b>I will.</b> </em></p><p> </p><p>Mary raised her hand to her temple, brushed away a strand of hair, her smile faltering but the tiniest amount.</p><p>
  <em> <b>We’re here, Mary.</b> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Molly lifted her hand, her face inches from the baby’s, her profile glowing in the soft light from the window, though her features needed no such additional warmth. With the tip of her index finger, she stroked from between the baby’s eyebrows to the end it its nose. It continued in its endeavour to get all of its fingers into its tiny mouth, seeming really quite indifferent to this caress. For Sherlock, though, the action tilted the world on its axis.</p><p>The feeling was hormonal, that he knew. Its every other feature was a mystery. He focussed upon it but even before he had achieved that aim the feeling had passed, leaving him bereft in its absence. He blinked. Summoned the memory of it. Low in his gut, like a hook attached to a line gently pulled upon. Rippling subtly up his spine and manifesting in an almost imperceptible tingling in his arms, his hands, his fingers, right to the tips.</p><p>
  <em> <b>What do I do?<br/></b> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He realised his breathing pattern had altered. He mastered himself. As the room came back into focus he saw that almost everyone in it had changed position while he had stood frozen to the spot. Predictably, though, the baby remained the epicentre, so Sherlock flexed his thumbs ready to resume his tactic. Possibly by this point there might be an actual response to fire off…</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes met those of his best friend’s wife. The feeling this prompted wasn’t one he needed to explore any more, it was familiar and necessary. Natural. Mary smiled at him, with minute precision.</p><p>Sherlock cleared his throat and put his phone away.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A cuppa for the scull.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fancy knowing what happened in between (in my head)? - follow the series link - Who You Really Are.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Baker Street</p><p>Almost 2 years later</p><p> </p><p>Molly hurried up the staircase, shouting a hasty ‘hi’ to Mrs Hudson as the landlady looked out of her door. Molly was hot and flustered and she felt terrible.</p><p>As she reached the top stair out of breath, she watched a naked baby wearing a nappy on its head charge past the open door at speed, shrieking at the top of its lungs. <em>Oh God</em>.</p><p>“Molly?!” Sherlock sounded frantic.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, Sherlock...” she fumbled the safety gate catch - these things flummoxed her at the best of times, “...Mike had some things he wanted me to go over for the PHD students, then it was rush hour before I left...”</p><p>She finally swung the gate open and almost fell into the room. She dreaded to look around. This was the first time John had left Rosie with Sherlock overnight (he knew Molly would be there after work) and it was looking like it may well be the last.</p><p>The living room was carnage. Toys were scattered everywhere, the settee cushions were piled in the middle of the room, the full china tea service was on the floor along with the skull which usually lived on the mantle. There were about a million nappies; following their trail she saw the changing-bag upside down and clearly empty, by the hearth. Molly clicked the gate closed and whipped her bag and coat off, thinking of catching the wayward little girl. She heard the thundering of tiny footsteps coming towards her.</p><p>“Moo!” Rosie cried, colliding with the back of Molly’s knees, almost toppling her. Her gorgeously pudgy little arms wrapped around Molly’s legs.</p><p>“Hello Rosie-Woo!” Molly scooped her up. “Where on Earth are your clothes, young lady?”</p><p>Rosie’s hands went to her head. “Hat!” she exclaimed, grinning.</p><p>“Yes it’s a lovely hat, but...”</p><p>Rosie pointed over Molly’s shoulder with her whole body. Molly turned towards the kitchen and Rosie kept her focus on the hallway beyond. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, the flat was deathly quiet. Molly felt a chill creep up her spine.</p><p>“Uhhh!” Rosie wriggled out of Molly’s arms and pulled her by the hand to the bathroom. Molly’s heart rate picked up, thinking of the desperate sound of Sherlock’s voice when he’d called to her. She braced herself for what she might be about to see...</p><p>Looking around the bathroom door she found the room messy, but empty. Her brow knitted. She was about to turn around when Rosie yanked her fingers even harder and, amazed as ever by this baby’s frankly ridiculous strength and determination, Molly was pulled over to the toilet. Rosie pointed inside, Molly peered in.</p><p>“Rosie, did you do a wee on the toilet?”</p><p>Rosie clapped her hands and spun in a giddy circle by way of reply before dashing back out of the room. Molly then noticed the little wooden steps in front of the bowl. She shook her head.</p><p>“Takes an early developer to know one.”</p><p>Molly spun around at his voice and, seeing Sherlock leant on the door-frame, clearly not horribly injured or about to collapse, she clutched her heart and let out the breath she had been holding, which turned into a nervous laugh.</p><p>“Oh my God, Sherlock!” she spluttered.</p><p>“I know. While aesthetically I am more inclined to the paler metals, I think I would prefer my medal in gold.”</p><p>“I thought something had happened!”</p><p>“Something has happened - I have toilet-trained a one-year old.”</p><p>“Twenty-month old.”</p><p>“Still.”</p><p>Molly sighed and ran her hands down her face, wishing she had it in her to wipe the smile off it - he was a smug git and his ego hardly needed the boost - but she just couldn’t. She crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. He gathered her up in the way she would never tire of, pressing her to him and almost lifting her feet from the floor. He tasted delicious, she felt her heart skip as she heard his breath deepen, slid her fingers into his curls...</p><p>“Shell! Shell! Teeeeeeeee!”</p><p>They broke apart as Molly felt Sherlock’s knees collide with hers, realised he had just received the same treatment as she had from Rosie.</p><p>“Watson, you really ought to know where the kettle is by now,” he said. “It’s like old times.” He lifted his hands to Molly’s face and kissed her on the forehead before following Rosie back down the corridor.</p><p>Molly took the opportunity to use the loo. When she walked back into the living room she found Rosie sat serving a cup of tea to the scull from the pot, which appeared to be full of water. She watched, her heart swelling. It was only then she noticed the amazing smell in the room - she could hear Sherlock moving about in the kitchen.</p><p>“Sherlock, can I do anything?” she called, her stomach rumbling so loudly Rosie paused in her duties and giggled, pointing at Molly.</p><p>“Have some tea,” he replied. “Avail yourself of the facilities - our God-daughter makes a fine den.”</p><p>At the mention of this, and as Molly knelt on the floor, Rosie pushed herself onto her feet and lifted a woolen throw to reveal a cosy little space within the upended settee cushions. A plaid blanket was spread over the floor space, a Union Jack cushion at one end. A string of fairy lights crossed overhead. Rosie pottled inside and lay down, reaching for Molly. Molly crawled in and lay with just her top half inside the den. Rosie gabbled away, pointing around and snuggling the cushion. Molly chuckled at her, brushing her blonde curls from her forehead when she stilled. She had dispensed with her nappy hat.</p><p>“Dinner is served, ladies - Angelo’s finest,” Molly heard Sherlock say. Rosie jumped up and dashed to the kitchen. By the time Molly had disentangled herself and gone through, Rosie was sat on a dining chair piled with several cushions and was tucking into her pasta with a fork. There was a sherry glass of milk by her plate.</p><p>“This is amazing,” Molly took a seat as Sherlock placed a plate of macaroni cheese and salad in front of her.</p><p>“Would you like milk, too?” he asked, smiling. He didn’t wait for her to reply, but poured her a glass of red wine. Filling his glass, he sat and quiet fell as they all ate. Molly kept glancing at Rosie, who tried valiantly to spear her pasta with the fork and manoeuvre it to her open mouth, sometimes managing, supplementing her efforts with the occasional fistful from the other hand.</p><p>“Macaroni cheese is the best, isn’t it Rosie?” she said. Rosie nodded, her little eyes looking gradually more sleepy as her tummy filled. Molly stroked her pillowy cheek. Returning to her meal, she looked up at Sherlock and found him looking at her, an intensity about his eyes but a softness in his features. Her tummy swooped.</p><p>“You okay?” she asked him.</p><p>“Yes,” he replied, his voice low. The ghost of a smile played on his lips and his eyes darkened fractionally.</p><p>Molly took a sip of her wine. Tried not to let her eyes drop to his throat, to where his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck...</p><p>She cleared her throat. “I love what you two have done with the place,” she said. When Sherlock looked at her in confusion, she gestured to the chaos of the living room, the mess of pots and pans on the kitchen surfaces, mingled with lab equipment.</p><p>“Oh, that - irrelevant,” he said. “Mess is only bothersome to those who value appearance over utility.”</p><p>“There comes a point where utility is compromised by mess,” Molly argued.</p><p>“Yes, it must be ghastly for people who lack the capacity to remember where everything is.”</p><p>“Well, you’ve certainly had fun,” Molly said.</p><p>“Absolutely,” Sherlock looked at Rosie, who was very carefully tipping milk into her mouth, both hands around the glass, only a little dribble running down her chin. “Fun as well as physical and cognitive development. What more could a small Watson ask for?”</p><p>Molly laughed. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”</p><p> </p><p>An hour later, Molly draped the tea towel over the back of a dining chair, the dirty pots dispensed with and the table clear. She didn’t know where to start with the lab stuff and wouldn’t even think of tackling it without gloves. She went through to the living room, where Sherlock had lit a fire in the grate. The evening had drawn in, the room was dark apart from the glow of the flames and the fairy lights, now draped across the desk. The settee was reconstructed, and Sherlock was laid on it, Rosie fast asleep in striped pyjamas on his front. The peacefulness of this scene was total.</p><p>She walked over to Sherlock, he looked up to her and placed his hand on her waist. Molly laid her hand on his cheek.</p><p>“You don’t need me at all,” she said.</p><p>“I do,” he told her, moving his hand to her elbow and holding her tight as he kissed the palm of her hand. He raised his eyes to hers again when he opened them and Molly wanted to tip into their endless beauty.</p><p>“Shall I put her down?” she asked. “Where’s the cot?”</p><p>“I put it up next to the bed,” he said. “But I thought we might have her between us?”</p><p>He watched for her reaction. Molly worried he might misinterpret her as she was momentarily rendered speechless by the powerful surge of emotion she experienced. It took her breath away. He took her breath away, by the simplest and purest methods.</p><p>“Love... lovely,” she stuttered. Sherlock’s smile did nothing to help her gather herself.</p><p>She carefully lifted Rosie and cuddled her into the crook of her neck, breathing in the incredible scent of her, loving the weight and shape of the baby in her arms, the sound of her deep, gentle breaths. She carried her to Sherlock’s bedroom and laid her in the centre of the bed, moving the duvet to the foot and the pillows to the very edges, tucking them under the sheet. Rosie flung her arms and legs out into the least cosy looking starfish arrangement, then stilled, her little cheeks pink and edible.</p><p>Molly picked up the monitor Sherlock had already set up and wondered back through to the living room. Delicious visions of how close they would have to be to share the settee for the next hour or two swam in her mind. Perhaps she could find out what it was like to lie in front of an open fire... her heart skipped in anticipation.</p><p>She cast her eyes over the room as she entered it. Sherlock was right, the mess didn’t matter. The place was full of contentment. She walked over to him, dropped to her knees and kissed his lips. He hummed. Molly opened her eyes. He didn’t. He was absolutely sound asleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I adore a clueless Sherlock, but I'm a total sucker for a man who most definitely isn’t just babysitting &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Would you be happy?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>London</p><p>Not long after</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock lifted Rosie to his side and cradled her head against his shoulder. She continued to hiccough and gulp, her cheeks aflame and running with infeasibly large tears.</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s okay...”</p><p>He watched John walk out of the room. Looked at Molly collecting thrown toys from around the space. He bounced gently, swaying from side to side with his cheek now pressed against the baby’s head.</p><p>“You cry if you want to, Rosie,” he told her. “I was an emotional child. Stood me in good stead.”</p><p>Rosie sobbed quietly. Molly looked at Sherlock, a slow smile spreading across her face. He felt a twisting about his midriff, a tugging lower.</p><p>“Eventually,” she remarked.</p><p>Sherlock returned her smile first and then her kiss when she walked over and raised herself onto the balls of her toes to brush her lips against his. She laid her hand on top of his on Rosie’s curls.</p><p>Molly returned to her task, although there was very little to tidy, even objectively speaking. Sherlock continued to rock and soothe Rosie. Amazed, as ever, that it was within the scope of his ability to provide solace to another person. There was that pull again. Stronger.</p><p>“If Rosie was yours,” Sherlock turned to Molly as she spoke, finding her looking at him. “Would you be happy if I was her Mum?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Not a breath between her question and his answer. Molly’s face showed surprise. Then something other – less palpable – more beautiful.</p><p>“Yes, Molly Hooper,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers. “That is the answer to your question and the one you dare not ask directly.”</p><p>Molly’s breath forced out of her and the look of anxiety her features had been possessed by when she had suggested the hypothesis that the baby was his own, dissolved entirely. Sherlock took a slow step towards her, Rosie now quiet on his shoulder.</p><p>“Let me ask you in return,” he said to her. “If I was the fool standing alone, mind full of inadequate words, heart fit to burst, his grandmother’s ring in his hand… would you be happy if it were you who came to stand at my side?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Sherlock could do nothing other than kiss her - his mind, his reason, his senses overpowered. He felt Molly’s giddiness tingle through her every fibre for one euphoric moment, before a sure strength came to them both…</p><p>Rosie slapped her hand against Molly’s cheek. Sherlock and Molly broke apart, he joined her in laughing. Molly lifted her fingers to her lips, her eyes alight as they looked deep into his own.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>I love you.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em> I love you.<b><br/>
</b> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Miss Watson, it appears I shall have to overlook my disdain for the institution of marriage.”</p><p>“Uncle Sherlock will remind himself that Aunt Moll believes in the importance of legal security, especially in the eventuality of death.”</p><p>“Ugh,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Marriage and death, impossible to discuss one without the other. The twinkle in the eye and the arsenic in the soup.”</p><p>Molly swatted Sherlock’s arm, laughing again. Rosie tried to poke her in the eye.</p><p>
  <em>Stop smiling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <b>Not a chance, Mrs Watson.</b> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Right, I have baby crack – don’t get excited, Sherlock, it’s only teething powder – and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Who wants what?”</p><p>John strode into the room and abruptly stopped. He looked between Sherlock and Molly.</p><p>“What just happened?”</p><p>“Wine, please John. We’re celebrating,” Sherlock smiled, flicked his eyes to Molly.</p><p>John followed suit. Molly nodded, enthusiastically.</p><p>“Well. Fuck me.”</p><p>Molly clapped her hands to her mouth, raising her eyebrows at a now beaming Rosie.</p><p>“Chief bridesmaid is your best bet, John,” Sherlock offered.</p><p>John got hold of Molly and hugged her fiercely, kissed her cheek. Then he clasped Sherlock’s arm, still holding his daughter.</p><p>“Best man?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>“Best friend,” John confirmed. “Yes, of course.”</p><p>There was a beautiful, silent moment.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So - what happened next?  Follow the series link - A Request, Made Properly.</p><p>Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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